


this is not a seduction

by missbecky



Category: Farscape
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 09:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13361439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/pseuds/missbecky
Summary: This is her making a point, and doing it the only way she knows how. This is her way of saying, When you remember hands on your body, remembermyhands, and no one else’s.





	this is not a seduction

The first time he admits it, actually says it out loud -– _she raped me, Aeryn_ -– all she can feel is the pain as her heart breaks.

A microt later comes the rage. More than anything then she wants to jump in a Prowler and fly out to the Command Carrier, hunt down that frelling _bitch_ , and rip her apart. But that won’t do John any good, and John is standing here now, needing her _now_.

She takes a breath, calming herself. “It doesn’t change,” she says, “how I feel about you.”

Anger flashes in his eyes, cutting through the shame. “You sure about that, baby?” He laughs bitterly. “I mean, now that you know someone else has sampled the goods.”

He doesn’t wear self-pity very well. Furious, she snaps, “Frell you, then, if you think that really makes a difference.”

“Aeryn,” he starts to protest.

She grabs his arms and shoves him backward, up against the bulkhead. The back of his head impacts with a solid thunk, but she barely notices. She slants her mouth over his, kissing him fiercely, demanding that he stop talking, just this once. She thinks maybe he will shy away, but he matches her beat for beat, breath for breath, even as he allows her to crush him against the bulkhead.

She rears her head back. “Tell me,” she says.

He’s got nowhere to go, but still she feels him shy back, away from her. “You don’t want to know,” he says.

“Then why did you tell me?” she asks.

He can only stare at her helplessly. He has words for everything, for every occasion, John Crichton does. Except for those things that truly hurt him. That is when he chooses silence.

And it pisses her off.

“Tell me,” she demands. She drags her hands up his arms, over his shoulders, skims the side of his neck, cups his face. Not once does she stop touching him.

“Aeryn.” It's all he can say, all he can _let_ himself say.

She leads him to his quarters, striding purposefully, not giving him a chance to lag behind. Once there, she closes the door and pulls the privacy curtain down. She gives his chest a shove, sending him reeling backward to sit on the edge of the bed. He sputters in protest, but doesn’t say anything.

She sits beside him. “Tell me.”

And he does.

Haltingly at first, anger and shame evident in every word, in the tension of his shoulders, the jut of his jaw. She hears the things he doesn’t say, too, and she knows he blames himself. She can’t tell him that what happened to him isn’t his fault, though. He will never believe her. He has an amazing capacity for self-flagellation –- that was a hard lesson to learn, but she’s learned it very well.

When he’s finished, she sits very still. She has to. It’s either that, or fly into pieces. She has never been so angry in all her life. It’s unendurable, the thought of another woman’s hands on his body, taking what should only ever be given. _Her_ lips on his. His blood, _her_ fingertips coated in red.

The look of triumph on _her_ face.

Carefully she draws in a breath. Then another. And again, until she feels calm enough to speak.

She looks at him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he says, but it’s a reflexive response, with no real emotion behind it.

She grits her teeth so hard her jaw hurts.

John shifts beside her. He raises one hand and gnaws at his thumb. She knows that gesture well by now; it’s the sign that he’s distressed by something.

She breathes in again, then slowly she lifts her right foot and props it on her left knee. She pulls off her boot, then her sock. She follows suit with her other foot. Then she slides off the bed, onto the floor, and she does the same for John.

He looks down at her, somewhat bemused. “Whatcha doing?” he asks.

She is no fool. She knows that he knows exactly what she is doing. Furthermore, she knows that he is afraid. She doesn’t say anything, though. Words were never her strong suit, and anyway, they are unnecessary. She just sits beside him and she kisses him again.

He kisses her back, but like his rote response to her declaration of love, there is no real passion in the kiss. She might as well be kissing Rygel.

Aeryn moves closer, turning her body so her left leg is on the bed and she faces him. She lets her hands glide upward to touch his face, then down, down his arms until she takes hold of his hands. She puts his arms around her so he is embracing her.

Obediently John holds her, and he kisses her back with more determination now, but it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

It feels cold.

She yanks her head back. “Stop. Stop.”

He lets go of her. “What do you want, Aeryn?” He sounds tired, and that’s worse than if he was angry.

She grits her teeth. She’s not cut out for this, for patience, for games, especially in bed. And frell him, he knows it, too.

And it may have been some time since they were together like this, but he hasn’t forgotten how to read her. He sees the change in her attitude, and he stiffens. The coldness she’s only sensed before now becomes a very real thing, turning his eyes to ice. “What do you want?” he repeats, enunciating every syllable so that she understands the English words perfectly well.

“You,” she says simply. Let him deal with that.

In typical Crichton style, he deals with it by not dealing with it. He gets off the bed and he starts to walk away.

Quicker than thought, she hooks her right foot around his ankle, and pulls. The move takes him completely by surprise. He drops to the floor with a pained “oof”.

She’s off the bed in a flash. He’s almost too quick for her, though, rolling onto his back, one hand coming up in self-defense, the other reaching for the pulse pistol strapped to his thigh.

She captures his hand before he can draw, and drops to her knees, straddling his hips. She grabs his other wrist and squeezes, hard. “No.”

John glares up at her. “Let go.”

It’s been cycles since she had to demonstrate her superior strength; she does not hesitate now. She forces his arms up over his head and pins his wrists to the floor. He bucks beneath her, growling low in his throat in frustration.

The sound spears right through her.

She’s bent over now, her hair falling loose about her shoulders, into his face. He frowns in annoyance and blows at a thick lock that tickles his cheek. “Damnit, Aeryn.”

She rolls her shoulders, watching the play of her hair across his throat. She leans down to kiss him, and he jerks his head to one side. His jaw is clenched, his lips stubbornly pressed together.

Undaunted, she sinks lower still, and presses a kiss to the tender spot just beneath his ear. She can feel the bones of his wrists grinding together beneath her hands as she’s forced to put more weight on her arms in order to maintain her position, but she doesn’t relent.

“Crichton.” She kisses him again. He twitches in irritation, and she takes advantage of the chance to plant one knee between his thighs, and slowly slide it upward.

His eyes widen when she nudges at his crotch. “Aeryn.” Her name is little more than an exhalation of breath.

“What?” she asks. She nuzzles at the line of his jaw, stinging her lips on the short dark hairs growing there.

He doesn’t respond at first. She presses gently with her knee, upward, and then to the right, into the muscle of his thigh. “Be careful,” he sighs, and then he surrenders.

Immediately she lets go of his wrists. She straightens up. She doesn't want it to happen like this, the past repeating itself. If she keeps this up, she's no better than that Peacekeeper tralk.

John stares up at her. He doesn’t move. He just looks at her, unsure of her next move, wary and confused.

Aeryn bites her lip. She had no plan when she started this. She certainly doesn’t know what to do now. And she hates that, hates this awful worry that puts a quiver in her voice as she asks, “Do you still want me?”

If he does, he’s hiding it well. She can feel the evidence -– or lack of it -– against her knee. So she tells herself she shouldn’t be surprised when he says, “No.”

She knows he’s lying. She’s certain of it. He’s just so damn stubborn; everything always has to be done his way. She rises to her feet in one smooth motion. “Frell you, then.”

Crichton just laughs and spreads his arms wide. “Go ahead,” he invites. “Everyone else does.”

She resists the urge to kick him in the head as she walks out.

****

She’s alone in Command, late in the sleep-cycle, when he walks up behind her. He doesn’t say a word and neither does she. She doesn’t even turn around. If this is how it’s going to be, this is how it’s going to be. She’s fine with that.

Just before he slams her up against the console, she figures it out. She lets him do it, though. He needs this far more than she does. She is quiet and still as he pins her there with his hips, plants one hand on her back, and shoves her forward. She braces her arms on the console and leans over, although not as far as he’d probably like.

His hands slide under her vest. One palm splays against her belly, his fingers warm and hard. She makes a little noise, encouraging him. His fingers press in, and she pushes back against him.

His other hand moves upward, tugging at her bra, then inside, cupping her breast. His thumb rubs her nipple almost lazily. She bends over a little more, thrusting her hips back. He wants her now, oh yes.

The fingers on her belly start moving in small circles, dipping lower each time, skimming the waistband of her leathers. His breath is hot on her neck, but he doesn’t kiss her; he just sort of hovers, driving her mad with his proximity.

She moans softly.

Abruptly he pulls his hands away. He backs up, and it happens so fast, she’s cold before she even realizes why.

She spins around, using the console to support her shaky legs. John is still backing away, his eyes locked on hers. He doesn’t turn around until he’s almost at the door, when he judges it’s finally safe to turn his back on her. 

And then he’s gone.

Aeryn swears viciously and slams her hands down on the console.

****

She would have thought that on a ship as big as _Moya_ , it wouldn’t be so hard to avoid certain people. But everywhere she goes, Crichton is there ahead of her. He’s in the hangar working on his module. He’s already fixing the lighting problem in the treblin-side corridor on tier sixteen. He’s there in the laundry, kneeling in the pool, up to his elbows in _Moya's_ amnexus fluid.

Aeryn hesitates for a moment, then walks determinedly forward. Enough is enough. It’s today, or it’s never, and it _will_ be today. Because there is no way -– no way in _hell_ , Crichton would say -– that she is going to let him go through the rest of his life with the memory of that bitch’s hands on him.

“I’m almost done here,” John says.

There's a wariness in his eyes when he glances up at her, but he sounds perfectly normal. Because that’s how John Crichton always is. Bad things happen to him, but then he bounces back. And maybe afterward he’s a little more angry or cynical or mistrustful, but basically he’s the same loud, strange, emotional Human he always was.

But Aeryn knows otherwise. She has seen the toll the past few cycles have taken on John, this loud, strange, emotional Human she loves with all her heart -- and she is frelling tired of it. She can't do anything about Scorpius or the Scarrans or the other threats in the galaxy, but she can damn well do something about this.

“Good,” she says. She drops her bundle of laundry on the floor, plants one foot on the rounded edge of the pool, and shoves Crichton as hard as she can.

He makes a strangled sound of outrage, then lands face first in the amnexus fluid. He flails about for a few microts, then sits up, smoky fluid dripping from his hair and down his nose. “What the hell was that for?” he shouts.

“Oh dear,” Aeryn says, as sweetly as she can. “Would you look at what happened.”

John glares up at her. “Any particular reason for that, or are you just feeling bitchy today?”

She holds out her hand. He pouts for a little bit, then reaches up and clasps her wrist. She pulls him to his feet. Even after he steps out of the pool, she holds on for a while, her grip firm. She presses in with her thumb, then she lets go of him. “I guess you’ll be needing a shower now,” she says.

John opens his mouth to retort, and then something sparks in his eyes. He blinks. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I guess I will.”

They leave the laundry behind, hers still rolled into a dirty bundle, his mostly clean and neatly arranged on the far side of the pool. Aeryn lets him lead the way as they head for his quarters. She’s content to let him guide her for as long as he can; she knows eventually she’ll have to take charge. She just hopes that it won’t happen _too_ soon.

As soon as the door closes behind her, she begins taking off her clothes. She doesn’t rush, but she doesn’t draw it out, either. It just _is_.

John watches her, his eyes following the movement of her hands, drinking in the sight of her body as she strips. It’s not until her underwear hits the floor and she’s completely naked that he finally seems to realize he’s just standing there, dripping amnexus fluid onto the floor, staring like he’s never seen her nude body before.

“I’ll start the shower,” Aeryn says. She can feel his eyes on her as she walks past him.

She’s careful with the temperature settings; Crichton prefers the water hotter than she can normally stand, but she’s willing to put up with a little discomfort if it means getting the desired results. Certainly she’s done it before. She likes to think she’ll do it again, in the future.

She stands just outside the spray, testing the water with her hand. John walks in, his shoulders up, his jaw set. He looks like he’s expecting her to take a swing at him. 

Instead, she just says, “Ready?”

Some of the tension eases from him. “Wasn’t sure if you were gonna ambush me again,” he says.

“Now why would I need to do that?” she says, again with the false sweetness. She knows things like that keep him off balance. She’s counting on it. 

John looks at her for a long moment, then he steps under the water.

She stays back at first, letting him wash away the amnexus fluid, enjoying the sight of him again after all this time. She almost forgot the way the water glistens on his skin, the way he closes his eyes when he tips his head back and washes his hair. And she notices all the new things, too, like the thin white scar on his lower abdomen, and she remembers what he said about the blade _she_ wielded when he was helpless to fight back, and her hands ball into fists at her sides.

She breathes in deep again, reminding herself to remain calm. For now, at any rate.

John is nearly done. She doesn’t want him to leave just yet, though, so she steps forward. Hot water rushes over her feet and legs, and another step brings it up to her belly, and she frowns a little, because it really is too hot, but she can hardly back away now, so she keeps going until she’s all the way under the spray and reaching for the soap.

Crichton scrubs the last of the shampoo from his hair and looks at her. He grins. “What? Did I miss a spot?”

“I think so,” she says somberly. “Turn around.”

He gazes at her for a microt, then he turns around. She works up a good lather, and then she begins to wash his back.

“Um,” he says.

She ignores him. She works patiently, kneading that spot at the base of his neck where the muscles bunch up when he’s tense. He stands under the spray, his head bowed slightly, and for a change, he doesn’t say a single word.

She doesn’t rush, but she doesn’t linger, either. Still, she can’t pretend she isn’t enjoying this, and when she lowers herself to her knees so she can reach his legs better, she can’t stop herself from leaning in and kissing the inside of his thigh, just above his knee.

Startled, Crichton flinches and nearly kicks her. She almost wishes he had. She deserves the painful reminder that this is not a seduction. This is her making a point, and doing it the only way she knows how. This is her way of saying, _When you remember hands on your body, remember_ my _hands, and no one else’s._

When she’s finished, when she’s washed away every trace of that frelling tralk’s touch, she turns off the water, takes John’s hand and leads him out of the shower and into the bedroom. Naked and wet, she wraps her arms around his neck and she kisses him.

John splays his fingers across the small of her back and presses her close. He bends her backward with the force of his kiss, his tongue sweeping over hers, his other hand entwined in her hair, pulling her head back even further. The strain on her neck is uncomfortable, but she ignores it in favor of canting her hips upward, grinding against his erection.

“Aeryn.” He rests his cheek on hers, his breath hot in her ear. She can feel him trembling.

She takes a single step backward. Then another.

John follows.

When the backs of her legs touch the bed, she lets herself bend and fall. John’s hand on her back guides her down, and then she’s lying flat, looking up at him.

He’s close to bolting again, she realizes suddenly. There are too many memories between them, too many things unsaid. And if she loses him now, she will never get him back.

She reaches up and gently strokes his face. She loves him so much it hurts, loves him enough that once she wanted to die when she thought she would have to live without him. “Yes,” she says.

John closes his eyes. He bows his head. His shoulders lift as he draws in a sharp breath.

Aeryn waits.

And then he kisses her.

Now that he has committed himself, all his focus is for her. His mouth is demanding; his hands roam over her body, caressing her belly, cupping her breasts. She tips her head back so he can kiss her throat, his tongue stabbing at the hollow where her pulse beats. He rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulling gently, sending liquid heat all the way through her.

She clutches him close and lifts one knee, opening herself to him. He captures her mouth again, then rises to his knees and moves down her body, kissing a breast, her belly, the top of one thigh.

Aeryn sighs softly. 

He lets one hand drift downward, past her navel, down the length of her thigh almost to her knee, then back up again. She spreads her legs wider, and he nuzzles at her breast, then takes the nipple in his mouth and suckles. She arches upward into the heat, and his hand finally comes to rest between her legs.

“Yes,” she says again. “John, yes.” This is about her now, as much as it is about him. She holds his head in place, her hands locked on the back of his neck. 

His fingers move slowly, sliding easily over her, finding her wet and ready. He teases her, stroking in small circles, dipping lightly inside her before withdrawing, and all the while deftly avoiding that one spot where she _aches_ to be touched.

It’s absolutely maddening.

She growls and moves beneath him, lifting her hips, trying to press herself into his hand. He chuckles softly, the exhalation of breath tightening her nipple painfully.

“Enough,” she says. She reaches down with one hand and takes hold of him.

“Ah,” John says. He shudders.

With practiced ease, she flips them over, rolling John onto his back, settling her weight over his hips. Neither of them moves at first, Aeryn holding still, John looking up at her warily.

She remembers what he told her; every word he said is branded into her brain. She takes his right hand now and lifts it to her mouth. She kisses his fingertips, tastes herself, and swivels her hips a little. Then she leans down, stretching his arm out to one side. She holds his wrist down for a microt, so he knows what she wants, then she lets go and sits up straight again and does the same thing with his left hand. 

John remains obediently still, arms outstretched, his breath coming fast. He’s more than a little afraid now, but Aeryn does not let that stop her. She needs him to understand, to know that the past cannot hurt him anymore.

She grinds her hips down, shifting her weight atop him. She kisses him as she moves, licking at a nipple, biting at an old scar. When she kisses his stomach, he involuntarily jumps, the muscles contracting inward as though to escape her touch. He almost brings his hands down, but he stops himself, and holds the pose she’s put him in.

For his reward, she doesn’t make him wait any longer. She takes him in her mouth, all the way.

She’s almost forgotten how he tastes, the way he moans in the back of his throat when she wraps her tongue around the head of his cock and sucks. She slips a hand beneath him, cupping his balls, stroking lightly at the skin behind them. His hips buck upward, and he makes a strangled sound that might be her name.

It’s been too long for both of them. One day, and hopefully soon, she will have the patience to linger, to kiss John the way he deserves to be kissed, but it's not this day. Instead of continuing with what she started, she backs away, still on her knees, and looks up at him.

He stares back at her, his eyes heavy-lidded, his hands curled into fists with the effort of keeping them still.

She rises up and shifts her weight, and John pushes upward, but she hesitates for a microt more, wanting to be sure, _needing_ to be sure.

“Aeryn.” He sounds desperate now.

She lowers herself onto him, and it _has_ been a while, so she’s almost painfully filled, but it feels incredible, she hasn’t felt this in so long, she throws her head back and cries out.

John takes that as permission to move. He grabs her and rolls her over and he stays with her, in her, and then he’s driving deep into her, kissing her so she can barely breathe. There’s an almost frantic lack of grace to his motions, but Aeryn forgives him for that right away. It doesn’t have to be perfect. 

It just has to _be_.

They move together, Aeryn holding him close to her, never wanting to let go again. At last John groans and then stiffens, his eyes tightly closed, one hand clutching hers so hard it hurts.

When he's finished, he collapses atop her, his forehead resting on her shoulder. He mumbles something that might be an apology.

Aeryn kisses the top of his head. Their fingers are still laced together. She still hasn’t come, but her own pleasure can wait until later.

There will be a later. She is sure of it.

She smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never loved a show like Farscape. Or known one that was so determined to break its hero, week after week. So this was me trying to give poor Crichton a measure of peace. And while I wouldn't condone this kind of thing in reality, in fiction it's a chance for some change, for something positive. Thanks for reading.


End file.
